


Gifting Night

by Em_Jacques



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Duty Requires Sexual Involvement, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Order/Hux Manipulation?, Force Choking, Forced Sexual Situation, Kidnapping, Master/Slave, Severe Dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_Jacques/pseuds/Em_Jacques
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a flurry of violence and blaster fire, the reader is ripped from her home by General Hux only to be thrown into the dust at the feet of none other than Kylo Ren; a challenging 'gift.'  The rare act of petulance on the General's part puts KR in a tight spot; unable to kill you, unable to leave you for the sake of saving face, he has no choice but to accept you.<br/>And so begins your new life as Kylo Ren's forced slave, a situation neither of you are pleased about.  But the Force works in mysterious ways, and as you two start this dance of duty unexpected elements arise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifting Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thus begins my AU! How it all starts, where it all begins, the very first dynamics of you and Kylo as you begin to test the waters of servitude, dominance, and each other.  
> It's long, but that's okay. There is plenty of room for short filth in other areas of this vein. I wanted to portray a begrudging Kylo Ren, acting, his heart's not really in it.  
> And yes, a fic is coming as a little prequel nugget highlighting some of KR's jackass endeavors with some cadets. Just because I can and I liked the idea of him having moments of weakness when he needs to use his looks and status to charm. As always, please comment for mistakes, ideas, requests, and of course, praise if you feel it!

Of course it was utterly foolish to believe they wouldn’t find you. But still you hid, belly down in the earth under your bed with your eyes squeezed shut as if the horrors would disappear if remained unseen. The screams of your family echoed in your ears before each were silenced with blaster shots, every bolt drawing closer to your hiding place. Certainly you should have woken from a dream as agonizing as this by now and as you screamed your terror silently into the dirt; disappearing was all you could hope for. A hand grips like a vice around your upper arm and the world goes silent.

Scratches and crushing marble fingers were all that existed when he drug you free. Troopers surrounded you with their blasters raised while you stared up into the barrels from your knees, unable to react. Every detail was thick, slow, and you labored with the effort of comprehending. Turning your head you follow the pale hand on your arm which led to a black sleeve, white bands around that cuff. The man’s thin face screamed at you, cheeks shaking in fury, red hair and cruel eyes horribly accented by the flush of his rage. His words were silent. You stared numbly, tears unconsciously rolling down your blank expression. Was this man going to kill you himself, instead of a Trooper? You weren’t special. You were a child who had zero interest in the First Order or any Resistance politics. The screaming face twisted into a cold smile, the steely eyes glinted with malice. 

Nothing made sense. Bare feet struggled to support you as the hallways flash by, until you’re no longer walking but rather being unceremoniously dragged by your arm and hair. The pain in your scalp was a dull throb, barely noticed under the blistering sun that beamed down as brutal and unforgiving as the Stormtroopers who had raided your home. You no longer registered who was dead and who remained alive. The bodies of your neighbors lay smeared with red, some faces frozen with mouths pleading wide for mercy. You see them, but they are no more than ghosts beyond the veil of your sluggish perception. 

You hit the ground on your knees, reeling over face first into the dirt and all at once it became impossibly loud. A crescendo of death and chaos assaulting your ears and the dream was no longer a dream, made all too real by the tang of blood-soaked sand between your teeth. Not your blood. 

“-ound this for you, Ren,” a man’s nasally voice pierces behind you. The one who dragged you here. You lifted your face and as you stared at the slicked boots in front of you, craning slowly to look upwards, the full scope of the nightmare before you unfolded. With him came the icy creep of dread and despair and you could not cry, could not blink your terrified, wide eyes despite the sting of dust and sun as your hair whipped into your face.

The sun did not glint off his form. It absorbed into layer after layer of black shrouds, drawn in and devoured like everything else that laid in his path. He had no face, for this was not a man. Not a being who could be reasoned with or pleaded to but a faceless monster, who would eat you alive like the meal you were offered as. The weight of your terror crushes you and you are paralyzed with it, unable to tear your gaze away, unable to speak, unable to breathe. He’s earthquakes, lightning, he’s every volatile force embodied in a single form and as you stare, riveted, you feel the volcanic rage radiate from him.

 

“It’s a present for you, for you to unwrap, play with, and discard,” came the same sharp taunt. He meant you. Your were to be discarded. You could not cry or protest and staring dumbly into the silver slats of this being’s mask, you want to die. Death creeps in and you crumple to the sand in your desire to be absorbed, but it stays solid beneath you, beneath the coagulated red mud into which it has begun to transform. Your bare legs are smeared with it and your night camisole is quickly absorbing the wetness, but you cannot begin to register or care about your filthy appearance. Face laying defeated against the ground you squeeze your eyes and breathe in the sun-baked smell of the sand under all the blood. For a brief moment it calms you, until large, gloved hands are grabbing you, hauling you up and you feel the surprisingly soft brush of thick robes against your arms and legs as he throws you over his shoulder. You feel like a rag doll, limp and struggling to breath under the confines of his securing arm. It’s easy to open your eyes and stare down at the ground behind him; you’re so high up, you grip the back of his cape without thinking for stability when he starts walking away from the sneering man and group of Troopers. Tears start to fall, and you watch them roll off his clothes in slow motion before a strange grip is squeezing your mind, taking away your consciousness, and everything is gone.

 

You wake up aching in every limb, head pounding. Throbs of sharp pain dart behind your closed eyes with the beat of your heart and cause a fresh wave of tears. Everything hurts. The smooth texture of concrete registers under you and you try to raise your head, but when it’s jerked to a stop the panic begins to set in. Eyes wide and darting, the severity of your situation acutely greets you.

From your view laying on the floor, you look through the iron legs of what seems to be a decorative stove. You’re chained by the neck to these legs, the links wrapped around to give you a very short lead that barely lets you crane to see the rest of the room, and your nightie is twisted around your torso never having been straightened after you were deposited here. The room seems empty. You don’t see his feet, and you try to raise up on your hands and knees.

If only he could snap that ginger bastard’s neck like he so often dreamed, Kylo Ren thinks from his silent perch on the arm of a sofa behind you as he watches you wiggle slightly. What was he playing at? Hux wasn’t one for caddy shows of one-upmanship. Tearing Ren down in front of the Supreme Leader or on the bridge was one thing, but this was new. This was a blatant challenge. Ren was so thankful for his helmet when he watched Hux drag you through the red sand, his stomach sinking more with every snarling word those thin lips let snake through in mockery; it hid his utter bewilderment. It hid his embarrassment as the General emphasized the lewd intent in his statement. He was probably tired of Ren sneaking around fucking his cadets in the middle of the night, Ren thought with an inaudible sigh. Maybe he had it coming, he contemplates while he watches you struggle to look around. He had definitely pushed his luck with the Togrutan and now he was stuck with you. He wanted more than anything to run you through with his light saber the second Hux hurled you down but he couldn’t; he wanted to turn heel and sweep over you to leave you sniveling on the ground, but Hux backed him into a corner.  
Usually when Kylo Ren was backed into a corner, somebody died. She’s lucky this is a special case, he thinks. 

Another sigh. He’d have words with the General. For now, no matter how exhausting a thing it was to take care of after a mission, he had a brand new slave to start training. A slave he delicately probed with the Force, gently so you don’t notice, just feeling what you emit. Tired, so tired, exhaustion that sinks so much deeper than just the physical toils of this past day. Sorrow buried underneath. A sorrow she isn’t focused on at the moment, he thinks. Too riddled through with fear and anticipation to realize it. His own face; rather, his own helmet races across her thoughts; only the slightest tint of fear with it though and that surprises him. He feels you notice the warmth of the stove and, oh, that’s where the fear comes from. A small smile breaks under his mask. He had no intent to torture you or hurt you, but he doesn’t see the point in reassuring you of that possibly mercurial fact. Plucking at the scared, icy thread gently with his mind, he’s interested at the one just beneath it…a hoarse screaming, a pining moan, something like thick desire chained tightly behind…but it’s buried a little deeper, and he’s not sure he can reach without you noticing. No matter. He’ll find out sooner or later.

“I wouldn’t move too much, if I were you.”

The rough timbre of his modulated voice echoes darkly behind you. Ice instantly grips you and you can’t help the successive whimper.

“Sometimes it can take a while to recover from being knocked unconscious by the Force. Try to calm down.”

The rustle of fabric heralds his movement into your field of vision and you quickly close your eyes in an attempt to block him out, block out the reality of where you are, when he squats down on his heels before you. His covered fingers grab your jaw, twisting your face up to his. 

“Look at me,” he orders softly, almost like a plea. It shocks you just a little and you obey automatically. Of course his mask is completely concealing but you hear the shallow breaths reverberate quietly behind it while he studies you. “Good enough.” 

Your heart drops with a bizarre pain of rejection as you interpret this as disappointment. When he lets go of your face to begin running his hands over your hair, tugging at some strands and twisting them as if to purposefully taunt you, you find the courage to speak. Your voice is hoarse, foreign to your own ears.

“Who are you?” 

A long moment of silence passes before he answers.

“My name is Kylo Ren. I am the commander of the Knights of Ren and serve the interests of the First Order, the General of which decided it prudent to…deposit you into my care.” Disdain briefly tints his grating words. He runs a light thumb across your lips making you flush with panic, his voice lilting higher. “And I am now your master. Your owner, your god, and your worst fucking nightmare.” That thumb parts your lips to slip menacingly inside, just enough to scrape along the edge of your bottom teeth. “You belong to me and you will submit to me in every way I demand. Your life will be much easier if you don’t resist me, and serve me well. Do you understand?”

You’re crying again, fat, hot tears streaking down the grime on your cheeks. Of course you knew this is what would happen. No girls or boys are taken for pure purposes when they have as few skills as you do; your body was your only value to the Order and you probably would, as the apparent General had promised, be discarded when it was deemed worthless. You were no fool, and you knew what they wanted. The overbearing bulk of his looming body has you lowering your head when you nod.

“I understand,” you whisper to the ground.

He grabs your jaw again and harshly twists you up to look at him, growling his orders with a newfound brutality.

“This starts now. Say it right and maybe I won’t burn you with the coals.”

The endless void of his helmet is as unforgiving as his words and you stare wide-eyed into it, ice in your veins when you answer.

“I understand, Master!” you correct. He roughly tosses down your face and moves to unwind your chain from the stove legs. Dread courses through you, but you wipe your cheeks and rise up on your knees before him when he stands to pull you up, wrapping the chain around one fist. A brief shock has you thinking he’s going to hit you with that fist. Even if you could tell you were shaking, you’d be helpless to stop it.

“Obey, and you won’t need to be scared. I can feel your fear, I can feel it freezing your mind and filling you with dread but I can’t have you like that.” He’s undoing his belt, working through the layers of his clothes and your stomach is churning. You can’t look away or run and his actions, his threats, are doing nothing to dispel the distasteful terror at what was to come.

“Are you going to kill me?” you cry hopelessly, choking on your words. “Master Re…Ren?”

A moan, you swear that strange mechanical rumble was a moan beneath the mask and he palms his groin hard while he works his clothes.

“I like that one. Continue to use it and no, I won’t.” An almost joking tone? You push it from your mind. He tugs your chain, making you lurch forward so he can place his hand behind your head, holding it in place before him. “Open. You know how this goes, what happens next.”

You unwittingly obey as your jaw drops when he pulls his erection from his trousers. Sex wasn’t foreign to you and you had decent experience, but the overwhelmingly large, delicately curved cock being stroked before your lips was causing unexpected and confusing sparks of lust. The wide, flushed head of it was shiny with desire and you suddenly were unsure you knew what to do; if you were even capable of taking it, if he would punish you if you couldn’t. Frozen you stare, the thick veins seeming more and more vulgar as they darkened and pulsed in his gloved fist. Your shocked arousal quickly fades and is replaced with the primal urge to run. Run fast and far away, to struggle and desperately try to escape your impending future. The phrase ‘sex slave’ is running like a mantra in your head in a horrific promise as you stare at his cock.

“You aren’t,” his strained voice jerks you from your daze. “I will fuck you often and thoroughly, yes, but there will be more to it than that. Don’t try to run.”

Confusion layers over your current churning emotions at his unprompted comment. You aren’t what? 

Knocked unconscious by the Force, he had said. 

He could wield the Force. He was sensing your thoughts as your formed them. He was feeling your emotions as you felt them, all of them. Due to nothing more than who you are as a person, the guilt of it wracks your chest and you choke a groan of shame; it must be so overwhelming for him, you were probably screaming in his mind, a roller coaster of shit…

“Stop,” he orders. “The only thing for you to think about right now is opening your throat for me to cum down.” 

And he pulls your face forward to press the head of his dick against your lips, and there is no other reaction but to part them for him. You want to look up at him, into the blank gaze of his helmet, but you can’t. He’s too thick for the angle as you’re left staring at the dark tuft of his pelvis while you run your tongue as best you can. Trying to slicken him, trying to open wide enough to not catch your teeth, trying to relax enough to swallow his girth; trying to please him. He doesn’t make any noise. He twists your hair in his hands, keeping you trapped between his grip and his body. The smell of lust and his base scent fogs your perception. When he pulls you off him, your eyes are glazed and lips are starting to redden.

“You suck dick like a whore,” he says. More pain darts through you.

“I’m not,” you defend. His thumbs delve into your mouth, probing and smearing your saliva as he opens your jaw wide.

“You will be,” he promises and slides between your lips once more. 

 

The first time he spilled his cum into your mouth you had no choice but to swallow, he was pressed so deep and solidly down your throat. After a few minutes of heavy breathing and hair knotting while stroking his monster back to life in front of your face, he repeated the process. His taste, sticky and bitter, lingered on your tongue when he forced his cock a second time into your mouth and your several-days-empty stomach was turning in disgust. Gulping down the loads of a masked stranger from your knees while chained down, you were a gross mess in your now stained and ripped night dress. He hadn’t even bothered to clean you since the raid and your skin prickled under its layer of stale dust and sweat. Although your hands weren’t bound you dared not try to examine the state of your hair between his actions; never mind beauty was of no concern to you at the moment, but if it had been, you’d have found the locks matted and greasy between your fingers. 

It’s not a moment after he pulls away from pumping down your throat a second time that you double over, heaving at his feet. Oxygen-depleted stars fill your vision and swirl around the blackness of his boots as if over the void of the night sky, and you’re vomiting in front of them. More like spitting up in front of them as your stomach is mostly empty by now. The thin splash of acid is streaked through with what unmistakably are the heavy white globs of his ejaculate, which should be less offensive to you than typical vomit but in this circumstance only make you heave harder when you stare at the floor and register what has happened.

The starry boots take a step back, distancing themselves from your mess.

“Did you just puke up my cum?” His halting voice seems so far above your bowed head. 

Panting, ribs aching and throat burning with the acrid taste, you stare at the small mess and have no idea how to respond. Your heart has stopped beating. He’s going to burn you with the stove. He’s going to upend it over your head and scar you forever, disfigure you and then he’s no longer going to want to keep you. Hell, he barely even wants to keep you now. You can’t stop the simultaneous terrors popping up in your dread, one after the other yet all at once. He’s going to dump your melted face with the Troopers and let them savage you until they kill you. Maybe you’ve stopped breathing in your reverie, but it doesn’t matter because with this one accident you’ve already killed yourself...

“Fuck…what?” you hear his denial. It can’t be your imagination creating the concern in his altered tone. You shamefully raise your face to look at him, trying to mask how pathetic you feel and embarrassed you are, which catches you by surprise. You shouldn’t care about his judgement of you, not now. The impenetrable helmet leans down over you.  
“First, the Troopers would treat you with far more humanity than certain…others, officers even, might. Second, if I was going to maim you I’d surely kill you after. You’ll probably witness how volatile I can be at some point.” His voice drops slightly as if speaking to himself, as does his mask. There’s a split second of wistful air that doesn’t escape your perception. “Finally, it is this entire situation I find undesirable, not you specifically. Now might be an excellent time to work on your understanding of that, since you apparently find me so repulsive.” His voice has darkened. Gloved hands run down your neck and over your spine as he walks behind you, slowly shedding a few of his outer layers. You stay on your elbows and knees just listening to him move. For some reason his solidarity is more comforting than your own intent at this point.

Warm through their leather gloves, he rests his hands on the curve of your hips when he kneels behind you.

“You’re going to make this hard for me, aren’t you?” he mocks, almost excitedly. 

You do answer, but mostly from confusion as you have yet to struggle or try to resist him. You’d rather live.  
“No, not…? I don’t understand, Master Ren.” The rawness of your throat makes vocalizing the words sting.

His dark chuckle sets your hair on end. Those creaking fingers move to toy at the hem of your gown, running along the edge before pushing it up to stay at your waist. Of course, this would happen next. You feel like you should cry, like it’s expected for you to cry, but for some reason you can’t. His leather fingertips are a fiery threat on your cheeks tracing the leg band of your panties but your eyes remain dry.

“I mean, little slave, that your body is going to make this hard for me. Unless you actually are a whore and you think you can take me already? How do I compare to your experience?” 

A challenge. A part of you wished he would just brutalize you, no matter how it hurt or ruined you, just so this moment would end and you could lie on the floor in peace; but you don’t ask him to or push him because for whatever reason the universe has deemed you worthy of being halfway serviced in your condition. It’s been a long time. As such…

“No, Master Ren. I don’t think I could.” Your voice is barely a whisper. You know physiology and arousal have far more to do with your ability to accept his size than your promiscuity, but that’s not what he wants to hear. Even so, he is intimidating. 

Panties get pushed aside in his zealous desire to feel you, and you squeeze your eyes shut when he slips two thick fingers wetly inside. He starts to pump and you gasp. 

“I know how your little pussy works, too, idiot girl,” he says lightly. The heavy lean of his clothed chest brushes hot and dark over your back and you groan at the vocoded promise next to your ear. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not in a week, but the time is going to come when you will beg for me.”

Another finger presses slick and he opens all three, pressing against your walls while he turns them. Your muscles tighten involuntarily and you have to take deep breaths in order to calm yourself, to will them to relax. To accept him. But he pushes his baby finger in with the rest and you’re unable to stop the screech of pain from tearing out. He quickly withdraws but only does so to turn his hand and push his thumb inside you instead, fingers caressing in your folds. The heat of his chest pulls away and you whimper at the loss of comfort. It makes sense, however, when he starts moving his other hand from its exploration of your neck and chest and slides the fingers in alongside his thumb to work you open with both hands. Despite how the digits rubbing your clit are indeed pulling tremors down your spine, the way he’s pressing against your walls has you screaming again. 

He presses his masked head down on your back, both stilling and solidifying you under his weight.

“Shh…you’re already so wet, it shouldn’t hurt. Stop screaming. It blocks you out from me, I can’t feel you as well.”

But his fingers don’t relent, and you can’t. You want to open up for him, you want to feel the burn of total desperation to take him in order to ease what’s to come, but the heavy chain wrapped around your neck is a constant reminder that you simply can’t. Forcefully taken, forcefully bound, and now, forcefully enslaved. It suddenly boils inside you and you shriek with rage.

“No!” You scream in a feral surge of resistance, trying to jerk forward away from his prying hands. The chain at your neck holds you in place, a decided distance away from his arm, but you thrash your hips in effort to dislodge him. Howls and snarls rip from your throat while the two of you grapple for a moment, but as suddenly as you found the urge to fight, an iron, invisible grip tightens around your body. Tightens within your body.

You can barely breath. Your arms and legs are splayed, pinned beneath his frame, but it’s not his physical form that keeps you still. The laborious pants through his mask are rough and scare you with their intensity but you are unable to tremble, unable to cry, as your entire body is held truly immobile at the end of his outstretched palm. 

“Stop. Fucking. Screaming,” he growls. “We both know this has to happen, whether we like it or not. Are you fucking done?” 

After the initial terror of his ferocity, his verbiage catches you a little off guard and the moment you feel his grip in body relax you’re nodding beneath him. 

“Yes Master Ren, I’m done,” you plead, weak and tired. You’ve never encountered a Force user before are don’t think you like it much. His hands resume their position in your core and an instinctual moan rises up. Before you can bite your lips one is reaching down, wrapping around your throat, gripping it tightly and cutting off any noise you might make.

The minutes blur into what seem like hours. All you feel after a while is his unrelenting grip on your throat, just loose enough for you to breath, while his fingers are prying you open and rubbing inside you to force a stimulation you couldn’t prevent even if you’d wholly wanted to. Caught between a hand and a grip, eventually you concede. Your body goes limp as you barely manage to support yourself. Sinking back onto his fingers you roll back your head, letting his grasp run down the tender exposure of your outstretched throat. Instead of choking off screams of pain or rejection his hand is caressing out moans, soft whimpers, gently wiping the dregs of tears on your cheeks. The crushing weight of his body over yours is no longer oppressive, but rather serves as a solid port in the storm of your ambiguity.

He releases your neck and you gasp, sputtering, but don’t lower your head. That large, leather clad palm comes to smooth the sweaty hair back from your forehead and his fingers withdraw from your sore pussy. 

“You’re ready now, doll,” he affirms. The surge of your heartbeat shames you, his automatic pet name warming you when you should be afraid, but aren’t. You’re scared you won’t please him maybe, scared your body won’t be what he expects or requires; scared he’ll exact the physical violence of that revelation upon you, maybe, but not afraid of this moment. Unforgiving and unrelenting he penetrates you, the thickness of his head forcing you open to allow his length to follow. Somehow it’s not horrible. Somehow you’re whimpering and arching your hips back against his robes to allow him better access as your cheeks flush with the obvious wanton picture you must make. He seats himself deep, stroking your face, before pulling back to thrust back far more harshly than before. Beginning a rough pace, he fucks you mercilessly while his reverberating pants echo against your face.

“This first time, I don’t think I’m living up to your expectations. There is so much terrible anticipation, so much dread. Why?” The mocking tone quickly takes a patronizing edge and you wish you could hide how much you like it. “You already know you love my cock. You already know if you’re good I probably won’t kill you. What are you afraid of?”

You stay quiet. How can you possible respond with coherent reasons? You’re surprising yourself as much as you’re conflicting your emotions to him. Every time you think maybe you have an explanation, maybe you can answer back to your new Master, he hits you hard inside with his wicked cock and you spew nothing but cries. His pace isn’t slowing and his hands wander to grip tight on one hip to shove you back against him, the other wasting no time tracing your lips in order to shove deeply into your mouth, prying your jaw open.

“Get in the habit of answering me, little slave, or I’ll rip them from your mind and I promise that will feel worse than anything I can possibly do with my body.”

“Ren, it’s too much!” You don’t mean for the words to sound as pathetic and hoarse as they do when you spit them around his fingers, but it’s unavoidable. “I’m…I’m afraid of the pain.”

He pounds fiercely between his words, wet fingers finding their place again around your neck.

“How…do you...address me...whore?”

You let out a small whimper and his dick seems to throb even more thickly within you. The simultaneous feeling of being handled so purely and firmly while being used, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Dreamt of, yes, many times, but even the sanctuary or your fantasies never held this level of authenticity. Head bowed against the cold, hard floor, thighs spreading willingly under his onslaught, you can only speak softly.

“Please don’t hurt me, Master Ren.”

Kylo Ren can’t help but read you, not that you were aware of his constant monitoring of those around him. It’s engrained in him at this point and he does so automatically. Without realizing how deeply he delves, your secret pleas, inner desperations, the incessant ache for someone to hold you so tightly you can never break free because they alone are strong enough, all washes over him. Beneath his helmet his eyes shut, and he listens. Your whispered requests echo in his mind as visions of the two of your flit across it like stills from a movie. The deeper he looks the more strongly he feels your ache, so easy to find in it’s similarity to his, and he’s seeing the same future you unknowingly yearn for. He sees you flat on your back with your hair spread out like a halo over his pillows. His broad hands claim you as he runs his palms over the bare expanse of your stomach, and your fingers are twisting in the sheets; your lust blown face gasps in slow motion when he thrusts into you and he’s swallowed into every crevasse of your soul when you start moaning his name, his real name…

“I am not obligated to promise you anything,” he says coldly, jerking viciously out of your head. The hand around your neck grips tighter and he twists your upper body to hold the back of your head down, forcing you to stare up at him. Your eyes go wide with the confusion of what you did to anger him.  
“Submit to me,” he snarls.

The terror of what the days to come might bring under his ruthless fist sends tears bubbling up, and you’re sputtering under his grip around your neck. Reddening cheeks burn hot and your eyes are fogging with the lack of oxygen. 

“Submit!” He screams the word, the distorted grate of it like the cry of a terrible beast tearing into it’s prey. You want to claw at his wrist but your arms are twisted beneath your body, his own bulk pressing too heavy for you dislodge them. Nasally whines screech desperately from you and you’re trying to nod, trying to gasp enough air into your aching lungs to acquiesce. Kylo Ren notices your struggle and relents his grip, allowing you to cough under the weight of just your collar.

“I submit,” you wheeze, “I submit, Master Ren, I subm…submi…” but your throat hurts too much and you can’t verbalize your pledge. The bruises are already forming, purple and dark and shaped like his hand. His pace is constant but you can barely feel him anymore through the numbness of your hips and fire in your neck. Only when he stops to turn you over completely onto your back, lifting your waist and legs up to pin you half-elevated between his cock and the floor, do you give a hoarse cry of fresh stimulation. Even though it burns to use your voice you can’t stop, he pushes too deep and too wide and it feels like he’s forcing the air from you with every thoughtless, brutal thrust. It angers him, and you can feel the frustration roll off him even without the help of the Force.

“I said no more screaming,” he snaps, and you hate the way he addresses you like you’re a dumb child. But his grip closes around your neck once more, pressing skilled and exact on your veins, cutting you off for good. Darkness creeps in from the corners of your vision and your new owner begins to pant more erratically over you. The soreness in your shoulder blades as he drives them into the floor radiates pain to your lower back, meeting the pain shooting like knives from within your hips. He starts to linger a bit with every push and you blissfully think this isn’t going to last much longer.

The shadows have almost completely taken over your view and you make one, two last gulps for a bit of air, but just before you pass out he releases your throat in favor of curling down hard over your body, gripping each shoulder to pump himself into you as deep as possible. His helmet is like ice against your face while he comes, and the shock of it helps draw you back to full awareness. It’s never going to end, you think. Low groans vibrate in your ear and you can feel his girth hot and sticky as he seems to drag his orgasm out as long as possible. You have no choice but to relax as best you can under his bear-like grip on your body; he crushes into you, bending and pushing against every part of you in an unbreakable hold while he fills you.

After he pulls away, numbness overtakes the pain and you collapse limply to the floor. One knee bent out and the other leg straight, hands askew with one underneath your back, you simply breathe as softly as possible, watching him. This might not be the most terrible thing that has happened to you; if this was how he introduced you to your new life of servitude, the rest may actually be tolerable. Might actually be; you couldn’t stop the glimmer of hope from sparking as his immense height rose dark and powerful at your feet; eventually enjoyable. Heartbeat calming as you lay still, relishing in the fresh air that drew unrestricted into your lungs, you waited. Best to let him speak first. To let him dictate your next move, not that you had the energy to move of your own accord anyway.

Kylo Ren sits down on his heels next to you, the front of his robes neatly reclosed. His masked head tilts first to one side, then the other, while he strokes hair and sweat out of your face. You don’t break contact with what you guess are the eye slats in the helmet. When he speaks, the modulated words are softer, almost delicate.

“I’m going to have a difficult time breaking you, aren’t I? Somewhere in there,” he strokes a hard thumb over your temple, “you think you’ll eventually enjoy being here. Tell me, what is going to leave you the most damaged? When I beat the will to fight out of you, or when you hand it over freely to make room for your own pleasure at my hands?”

For some reason you doubt you’re supposed to answer him. The question burns and you shudder, hating that he sees it warring in your mind. The anger and independence you felt, the dominance you’d always exuded, had been a default setting cultivated from a lifetime of being stronger and more willful than those around you. Betrayal after betrayal had led you to renounce all trust; you were the only one you could rely on, and even then there was doubt. What a blessing, what a mercy it would be, to have someone come who could make all your decisions for you. Who absolved you of all blame and responsibility, who made it your only duty to obey their command. It sounded like a twisted fairy tale but still the fantasy edged night after night in your dreams as you tried to sleep. The default setting of power was not one you wanted, but rather adopted. It terrified you, being completely at the mercy of this clearly dominating Force-user, but it also thrilled you in a way you had resigned to not be possible. Maybe he was the one. Not ‘the one’ in a hopeless romance sense, but the one who could bring your soul to its knees and still adore the devotion being on them signified.

Still, eyes darting in their effort to peer through the steel of his helmet, you doubted. It was foolish to hope for more than exactly what had happened tonight. Your position was made very clear, cemented by the pulsing ache of your core and neck while his seed dripped ever-cooling between your thighs to the floor. Maybe you were already broken. Surely a whole person would never entertain the persistent ache you felt, would never imagine the flares of future belonging you couldn’t quell at his tone and promising words. 

“You think too much,” he chastises you from his perch. He sounds confused and you remain silent, embarrassed again, wondering just how precisely he can probe. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak. You genuinely mean it. 

The air hangs still for a while as he stares at you, but looking up into an emotionless helmet helps keep some awkwardness at bay. It would be so much easier if you could tell what he was feeling, too, even just a flicker. 

“Master Ren, do I…do I get to bathe at all, to take a shower, or a bath?” Hopefully asking from your debauched, almost naked heap on the floor will make your request seem pitiful.

He’s silent for a moment and you fear the answer will be no. But he does respond, an edge of surprise to that overly revealing vocoded tone.

“In…the morning. You’ll soon learn what manners of filth I prefer you covered in, but tonight you learn your place. The only difference between you and a dog is that it would be generally frowned upon for me to sodomize an animal.”  
The harsh response works to jar you both from the atmosphere of uncertainty, and you grimace against the knife those words twist. He leans over you, tugging at your chain to move your head closer to the lowly smoldering stove and wrapping the end of it around its original place about one leg. Giving a swift tug make sure it’s secure, he uses the long tail to bind your wrists at your lower back. The chain is warm and despite the ruthless significance of his actions his hands are gentle when he turns you onto your side. He tugs the nightdress down over your jutted hip, more for the show of it than to actually cover your modesty.

“Sleep tight, idiot girl,” he says. You remain silent when he rises and walks out of your field of vision, deeper into his rooms. His voices carries deep and guttural, almost lustfully, back at you.  
“Don’t try to escape.”

Despite all your better judgement, you no longer feel afraid. His boot steps fade and just before they disappear you whisper quietly to yourself.

“I’m not obligated to promise you anything.”

Thinking you hear them pause you hold your breath, listening. After a tensely static moment they resume, then finally go silent. You exhale slowly. There is no escape and you know it. You’re here, for better or worse, and the best thing you can do is move forward without any delusions. Your family was gone, like so many families of the people you knew growing up, all of you caught in war you knew nothing about. No matter how often it happened there was always the nagging sense that it would never happen to you, that your own were safe. But all of you were wrong. There was no returning to your home planet of sand and palm trees, with the tang of the ocean and warm scent of flowers wafting through the windows, or the deceivingly oppressive heat of dual suns that would engulf you, scorch you; not unlike the oppressive black sun who fancied himself your new god. 

For the last time, in what would be a long time, you feel the familiar sting of sand and sun when you squeeze your eyes against the tears of loss that spring forth. You allow yourself this one night to mourn them, picturing each of their smiling faces in turn, then with an aching heart you push the memories from your mind. There is no more room for them if you are going to make it here.  
None of your discomforts are enough to stave away the tempting lull of sleep and you curl as best you can around the soft heat of the stove, still trying to push the taste of his cum from your teeth as unconsciousness claims you.


End file.
